


Witchers Don't Get Sick

by OhNoMyBreadsticks



Series: Bready Fills Prompts [11]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaking, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Stubborn Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23107075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhNoMyBreadsticks/pseuds/OhNoMyBreadsticks
Summary: Witchers don't get sick, so there's no reason for Geralt to stop and rest when he starts to feel a scratch in his throat. Better to push onwards to the next contract. Besides, what's the worst that could happen to him while he's all alone in the wilderness?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Bready Fills Prompts [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1411321
Comments: 14
Kudos: 286





	Witchers Don't Get Sick

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request fill for Anon on tumblr, who asked for "Geralt sick fic? He stubbornly refuses to admit he is ill until he can't even get on Roach? Maybe Jaskier getting to him just in time to help him weather the worst of it?" I love me a good sick fic, so this was a fun one to write :D

Geralt has been travelling alone for about a week when he feels the first scratch in his throat. He and the bard have parted ways for a while as is their normal routine - sometimes a job will pull Geralt in the opposite direction as a particularly tempting festival, and Jaskier will take his leave with much bowing and waving. Geralt doesn’t mind, because he knows they’ll inevitably stumble across each other again. And besides, the silence is a welcome break, allowing him to focus on his craft and his work. Roach is a silent yet comforting presence as she always has been, and Geralt lets his mind drift into a meditative lull as they ride along the road.

The scratch in his throat as he swallows takes Geralt off guard. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, a hint of pain at the edge of his mind, and at first he just assumes he’s dehydrated. Must not have taken enough breaks to stop and rest. Because while Witchers do need human things like rest and water, they certainly don’t get sick. Geralt reminds himself that when he wakes the next day and finds himself coughing, his throat more raw and uncomfortable by the minute. As he isn’t sick, there’s no need to stop and rest. He’s at least a day out from the nearest town anyways, and if he wants to snag a contract soon to replenish his rapidly dwindling coin, he needs to keep riding.

So Geralt rides along the dusty road, barely needing to guide Roach, who knows well enough not to stray off the path even if she spots a particularly tasty bush. Yesterday, the weather had been warm but not too hot, the chill of spring still clinging to the breeze that tugs at Geralt’s carefully pulled-back hair (Jaskier’s insistence, after the last time Geralt got into a fight and the monster ripped out a sizable chunk of his hair). But today, with the sun beating down on him, Geralt is suddenly burning up in his armor. Which makes no sense, he knows, since he should be able to regulate his body temperature better than this. All he can focus on now though is the slick feeling of sweat trickling down his neck.

It’s like Geralt’s mind is clouded, all of his usually impressive focus narrowed down onto the way his body feels. He’s so hot, he needs to get out of his armor, but common sense dictates that would be an incredibly dangerous move out here in the wilds. So he rides on, wiping sweat off his brow, trying to reach that state of peaceful meditation again. It’s no use though, as his throat is pulsing angrily with every swallow, and his stomach has started to churn with the slow rocking of Roach’s back. Fuck, has he been cursed? The thought strikes Geralt with a sudden pang of fear, and he thinks of taking one of his witcher’s potions to try and shake off any lingering magic. Unfortunately, the thought of drinking one of the dark herbal brews has his stomach finally revolting, and he barely makes it out of the saddle before he’s retching, bile burning up his already agonized throat on the way out.

Roach shuffles nervously next to him, and Geralt knows he should reassure his mount, but suddenly the added heat of her body in any proximity to his is unbearable. He stumbles away, wiping at his mouth, clumsy fingers fumbling for the ties and buckles on his armor. Fuck common sense, if he doesn’t get this armor off he’s going to boil to death. Leaning against a tree for stability, he’s fighting one particularly stubborn buckle when he hears a sound - a voice - in the distance.

“Hello Roach! Has your silly witcher left you all alone here? What’s he up to, saving some poor damsel in distress?” 

The voice is familiar, but with his head swimming like it is, Geralt can’t place it. There’s an exclamation of disgust as whoever it is finds the mess he’s left behind, and then a concerned call of “Geralt?” He wants to respond but his mouth feels absolutely vile and his throat is in immense amounts of pain. His hands are still fumbling at that  _ damn _ buckle when suddenly a figure comes into view - a smudge of purple - when did his vision get fuzzy - it’s coming closer - he should probably draw his sword -

And then everything goes dark. Geralt is dimly aware of someone yelling, and soft hands are tugging at him, but it seems like something happening to him in a dream.

The next time he gains consciousness, there’s a cool cloth pressed against his forehead, and he’s laying on something soft. He groans, and the feeling is like drinking sand, it aches so badly. There’s a hand under his head, lifting him up, and a cool glass of water pressed to his lips. It hurts to swallow, but he does it anyways, realizing how parched he is as soon as the first splash of water lands on his tongue. It’s only once Geralt’s head lands back on the pillow that he thinks to turn his head, seeking out the face of the person who’s been so gentle with him. 

It’s Jaskier, because it’s always Jaskier, in the end, and Geralt finds himself comforted more than he would have expected by the sight of the bard’s half-hearted smile. “You gave me quite the fright” Jaskier says, “I’ve never seen you sick before. Had to haul you up onto Roach all by myself so we could ride into town!” 

“Witchers don’t get sick” Geralt counters, but his words come out as a croak, and he coughs for a good half a minute afterwards. 

Jaskier simply shakes his head, the worry obvious in the bags under his eyes and the way his hand rests so tenderly on Geralt’s arm. “And bards don’t play nursemaid. You just lay there and rest, I’ll take care of you.” he says. And Geralt, well, he has never known Jaskier to be a liar, so he lets his eyes slip closed with the knowledge that he’ll be looked after as he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!! 
> 
> As always, any and all comments or kudos left at any time are loved and cherished <3 If you'd like to see more of my drabbles or stop by for a chat you can find me over on [tumblr](https://ohnomybreadsticks.tumblr.com/)! :)


End file.
